Anne Cluysenaar
The Bird
How its head vibrates,
the beak braced on a song that flows
without hesitation from depths
of time toward depths of time.
Sounds to be lived by. Like feathers
with nothing to choose but keep skin
sheathed, bones able to fly.
Aware, though not self-aware. I
envy that! But at once
a consciousness echoes in mine –
one which discovered self
as miracle, riches of isolation.
What right have I, late come,
not to use words, not cast
phrase after phrase in search
of a world by that gift made strange?
The bird, running through his beak
a long flight-feather, sits
clear of these words – but, for me,
seen partly through if beyond them.
Page(s) 13
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